I turn off the water and dry my hands on a towel that's seen better days.
The problem is that she doesn't know that. She doesn't know anything about me except that I'm the guy who corrected Frank in the hardware store and has a dog named Ridge. And because she doesn't know, she's going to do what people like her do, people who are friendly and smiley and haven't learned yet that some doors are closed for a reason.
She's going to try.
I can already see it. The way she grinned when I said I didn't like people, like it was a challenge instead of a warning. The way she didn't flinch when I walked away in the hardware store. The way she looked at me in the parking lot, head tilted back, blue eyes bright, like I was interesting instead of broken.
I've seen that look before.
It never ends well.
Next Morning
I'm up before the sun. That's normal. I don't sleep much, and when I do, it's not the kind of sleep that leaves you rested. It's the kind where you wake up with your jaw clenched and your heart trying to punch through your ribs because your brain decided to replay the greatest hits of everything you've ever done wrong.
So, I get up. I make coffee. I take Ridge out to the tree line and let him run while I stand there in the cold and wait for my head to clear.
By the time the sun comes up, I'm already on my second cup and halfway through sharpening the chainsaw blade. It's meditative, this kind of work. Repetitive. Predictable. You do it right, the blade gets sharp. You do it wrong, you lose a finger.
Simple.
Ridge is lying in a patch of sunlight on the porch, watching me with half-closed eyes like he's supervising.
"Don't you have something better to do?" I ask him.
He yawns.
I'm about to tell him exactly how useless he is when I hear it, an engine. Coming up the road. I stop. Listen.
It's not the mail truck. Wrong day. Not Frank, either. His truck sounds like it's held together with duct tape and spite. This one's lighter. Smaller.
It gets closer, and then I see it through the trees: a little sedan that has no business being on a gravel road like this, bouncing over ruts like it's trying to shake itself apart.
Ridge's head comes up. His tail starts wagging.
And I know.
I know before the car even stops. Before the door opens. Before she steps out wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that's too big for her and boots that look brand new.
Jade.
She sees me and waves. Actually waves, like we're neighbors borrowing sugar.
"Hi!" she calls, picking her way across the uneven ground toward the porch.
I set the file down and stand up. Ridge is already halfway to her, tail going like a rotor blade.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
She stops at the base of the porch steps, looking up at me with that same bright expression that I already know means trouble.
"I flooded my kitchen," she says.
Of course she did.
"And you drove all the way out here to tell me that?"
"No," she says. "I drove all the way out here to ask for your help."